I think Sprout is still kind of up-and-coming in the whole preschool TV market.  You know how I can tell?  Because of the commercials.  If you are a brand in and of yourself like Disney Channel or Nick Jr, you don’t need commercials.  Every single minute of programming is a commercial.

The marketing peeps are all high-tech savvy now.  ”It’s like preschool on TV.”  You know, except it’s not, because no matter how many times Dora asks you to take something out of her backpack – you can’t actually comply.   So I guess it’s kind of like preschool on TV, if your peer asks for your input on something and then decides to do whatever the hell she wants anyway.  (Admittedly, that does sound a lot like preschool, and “Say Yes to the Dress”)

Or maybe you’ve been on a wicked acid trip since the mid nineties and you and your band-mates truly believe you are superheroes whose sole mission in life is to save the world through craptastic hypnotic music.  Then one day you hook up with Biz Markie and that guy from Devo who doesn’t brush his hair and likes to draw picture pages and you decide that you can’t save the world without saving the children…so you make a television show to instruct them how to dance the “Razzle Dazzle” and refrain from biting their friends or eating toast that has fallen on the floor.

And one of you primary characters resembles a giant P….ickle.

Preschool on TV?  Wow.  When I was a kid we just made planet mobiles out of paper plates and glitter.

I made Pluto.  Now they tell me it wasn’t even a planet after all.

My entire life is a lie.

Oh but Nick Jr has our number and our money.  Because the boy wants all things Wubbzy and Dora and Diego and Kai Lan!  I have competed in bidding wars in the middle of the night on eBay to win the privilege of  paying 15 times retail for an out of production Wubbzy figurine.   The anticipated appreciation in value of Michele Kwanzellberry and  Winkin’ Widget IS our five year plan.  If Wubzzy goes down – I’m going to have to get a real job.

Sprout doesn’t have the same niche.  Mostly because they have such a hodgepodge of different (many syndicated) shows.  It’s understandable that they can’t sustain being ad-free – but I have to wonder why the advertising is so disjointed.  You can’t even wrap your head around the demographic they must be reaching out to – Montel Williams hawking payday loans, Pillow Pets (It’s a pillow.  It’s a pet.  It’s a pillow pet!), and Your Baby Can Read.  Sleepy, plush loving, yuppie parents competing for a spot in one of those trendy baby “academies” in Manhattan that you have to get on the waitlist for like when you have your debutante party, who might need some extra cash to buy videos to watch with their fetus in between playing Mozart to their bellies and working on the pro-con list of diaper genie vs diaper champ?

Maybe.

It’s just that if you aspire for your 7 month old to read and believe that a set of DVD’s sold at Bed Bath and Beyond and $99.99 are all you need for this to be achieved.  The genes required for your child to be capable of reading, like ever, are seriously mutated.

Curiously enough, know what is good for turning out early readers?

Autism.

Yep.  Your baby may be able to read – if he’s autistic.

When Peter was 20 months old he could recognize every letter in the alphabet.  You might wonder how we accomplished that?  We did nothing.  Other than having books around.  The normal parent stuff.  It was the red flag that did us in.

When he was 28 months old he sight read a few words.  We thought we were losing our minds.  We dismissed it.  At that time he could barely say “Mommy”.

Sometime around 3.5 I realized that he was reading words.  Sight reading.  Memorization.  Last December I wrote the word Menorah on the wall in the bath.  He read it.

We never work on academics with Peter.  Let me explain.  He’s in school.  He’s well above grade level academically.  It’s not our primary focus.  It’s the one thing we don’t have to worry about.  So we work on emotional regulation, and staying present, and not spinning in circles, and communicating with peers…and holding a fork…and…ad nauseum.

I had a box of flashcards from my old job in the closet.  I’d noticed that since school started he’d been sight reading a lot more regularly.  I pulled them out and put them with his toys downstairs.

He opened the box and scattered them – tactile exercise.  Then he lined them up by length of word.  Then he began reading them.

When it was time to go to school I had to pry him from them.  I let him take a handful in the car.

As I drove, I heard him say, “I want to go to school.”

So I announced that indeed we were on our way to school.  And he began screaming “No, I do not want to go to school.  No I don’t like it.  I want to help you do your Avon job.”

I said “Peter, you just said you wanted to go to school.  I don’t understand.”

Peter:  ”No Mom, I read the “my baby can read card.”

Me:  ”The what?”

Peter:  ”The my baby can read card.  It sayed ‘I WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL’, I readed it.”

I turned around, grabbed the card and OMG – verbatim, the front of the card has a word, the back uses the word in a sentence – and then he read the other three.  I had to try hard(er than usual) to not drive off the road.

I don’t quite know why I am so surprised.  Hyperlexia is quite common with kids on the spectrum.  But whether it’s a symptom of something or not, I don’t care.  I’m going to celebrate the heck out of my boy reading.

Because a love of words is what has sustained me – and I believe that it can do the same for him.

All this without needing the payday loan.  I guess Michelle Kwanzellberry was the right investment after all.

I like beginnings.  The novelty of unspoiled newness lends itself to rebirth, reinvention, renewal of faith, energy, hope.

Autumn is my favorite season.

The first “open window” day after a long, miserable, stagnant summer is my favorite day of the entire year.  The scent that accompanies conjures memories of high school football games.  Cheeseburgers and fries enjoyed in the third quarter, post half-time marching band show.  It was our quarter off to giggle with friends and talk about how we’ll ever get our hat hair ready for the post-game dance.  My mom working the band concession stand, always the one to volunteer, me never appreciating how fortunate I was to have a parent so involved.   To this day the first question I get when I reconnect with a friend from my childhood is “How is your mom?”.  I’m proud of her.

I can now appreciate the commitment she made to me as a stay at home mom.  I see that you can be successful in life and not have a career.  My snobbery over status in my 20′s is shameful.  Vowing to put success in my career over everything else.  As if being “only” a caring and involved parent would be lesser, a consolation prize.   I’m sorry that I silently (and maybe not so) judged your “job” Mom.

Truth is, I see how this work is all consuming and ever-so-vital, I appreciate that the term “housewife” is incredibly insulting and downright inaccurate.

I admit though, that it takes a special kind strength to devote yourself wholly to your children.   It’s a strength that I’m not sure I possess.  I see that I lack the endurance necessary for the long haul.  I need my “work” selfishly.  I need it to feel empowered, confidant, relevant.

Many mother’s that I know work and they are hands down better mothers than I am.  It’s not that I’m qualifying staying home with being more committed, or working with being less accessible.

If it weren’t for that fateful diagnosis day, in May 2008, I too would be working right now.  But I (personally) wouldn’t be the mom I am today, because I wouldn’t have been forced to confront the fears I had of inadequacy.  I would’ve just accepted that my child and I would never have the relationship I so desperately wanted – because it was too hard – seemingly impossible.  So in that way, being a “housewife” has been the most amazing gift.

Though I must admit that I quite hope that some day in the not too terribly distant future I will work again.

Because when I’m in my “work” element I’m another woman.  A woman that I like.  A lot.

Being that woman, even a few hours a month, allows me to be a better Mommy. It’s the very oxygen that sustains me, that reminds me that these days, weeks, years, they will pass and at some point my child won’t need me in the same way, and that I will need another identity.

I was before him, and I will be after he’s grown, simply Debby.

In these precious years I will do my best to never miss a single field trip, or soccer practice, or Mommy and Me class.

Some day he will outgrow me being cool.  Some day I won’t be his best friend anymore.  Some day he will want his independence.  After all, that’s what we’re all working towards with our children, isn’t it?  We’re teaching them not to need us.  Because inevitably we won’t be here forever.  I believe he will reach that milestone and that – while it will be painful and bittersweet for me –  it will be a testament to his determination and fortitude.

When the “open window” days of MY Autumn come I hope I can gracefully transition back into being “simply Debby”.  I hope I can embrace the deciduousness of these precious years, guard the memories close to my heart, and look to the future with a rational eagerness to rediscover, reinvent, reclaim.

But for now, I will throw myself into “housewifery” with an unprecedented fervor.  Because this gig is once in a lifetime and completely unexpected and I intend to savor it.

See you at soccer practice next Saturday?

You know how sometimes you find yourself staring for hours blankly at a document you call your resume feeling completely overwhelmed and horrified at the prospect of qualifying yourself for anything in 2 pages or less.

But you have to because your husband is being laid off in 15 days and you don’t have anything else you can Craigslist or pawn?

And your really exhausted because you’ve been scrubbing butter-cream frosting off the carpeted stairs all morning but also because of the nightmares you had last night.  The nightmares about running into people who haven’t seen you in a while and having to explain to them why you are fat and the guilt about not updating your profile picture in the past 6 months on Facebook because you keep hoping, running, dieting, begging the gods that before you do run into any of those people in real life you will again be that girl?

Knowing that not being the girl in the profile picture means you are a fraud.  That you cannot admit that you’ve failed.

The nightmares about being exposed for who you really are.

The fear of not being good enough.  Because you aren’t.  Ever.

So you run and you eat lean cuisines three times a day and then one day you eat half a sheet cake and you give up again.

But you don’t/can’t/won’t talk about it…because they are out there…those who silently judge.  Those people who barely warrant a minuscule presence in your life, yet have a quizzically profound impact.  Those people you can’t bear to rid yourself of even though they are toxic.  Sitting there in their judgement and skinny jeans.

And you have plans and desires and wants to fulfill – but you can’t – because you fear being genuine.

So you stare at your resume and your running shoes and wonder if you ever get that resume done, and if someone ever calls you for work, will you be thin enough to have the courage to interview?

Years of professional confidence thrown away, because the 13 year old inside of you cannot relinquish control, because she can’t find balance between starving and binging.

And you are a 32 year old mother being controlled by a child.

The thing is that maybe you want to be exposed in some sick masochistic way to lighten the burden of keeping up appearances.

Then you realize that your life revolves around appearances.  Your career is appearances.

And you wonder what that says about you.  That you built a career around you narcissism.   That’s either the most brilliant thing ever or incredibly fucked up.

Or maybe…(for the resume)…

Brilliantly Fucked.

I’m breaking cardinal rules 1 & 2.

1) Thou shalt not blog whilst PMSing lest you say offensive shit and piss off all (three) of your followers.

2) Thou shalt not drink and blog.  Ever.

Consider that my disclaimer.

I want to talk about this “spectrum” of Autism.  These descriptive labels that are one size fits all in a tailor-made world.

I want to talk about what high-functioning means to me.

I understand that clinically” a child with Autism can not be considered “high-functioning” until they are around age 8 (and able to complete an IQ test).  At least this is what my son’s specialist has told me.

Still, most people draw a distinction much earlier.  Generally that distinction is deduced by the individuals’ ability to communicate.  Communication is not language.  Let’s be clear here.  You can memorize the Mandarin dictionary tomorrow and not know how to order Dim Sum.  Yum…Dim Sum…oh yeah, I digress.

I am not saying that I believe it is accurate to label people/children really, by the amount of words in their vocabulary – quite the contrary – I think it’s a horrendous disservice.  I’m just stating that it happens.  A lot.

When Peter was diagnosed with Autism at nearly 24 months he had practically no language.  He had very little eye contact.  He perseverated on objects.  He did not answer to his name.  He did not know that I was Mommy or, I like to tell myself that he DID know, he just didn’t know how to make me know that he knew.

He was developmentally delayed in every way possible.  He originally scored “moderate to severe” on the diagnostic tool.

We worked very hard.  His therapists worked very hard.  Peter worked very hard.  He improved, substantially.  I need to add a very important caveat here.  Many families work equally as hard, if not harder, and don’t have the positive results we have had.  I am in no way declaring us superior.  On the contrary, we are lucky.

Somewhere along the way Peter gained nouns, and then verbs, and now his vocabulary is actually above that of a typical four year old.  He’s very bright as well.  He does simple math, reads, is amazing with patterns and puzzles.

I guess that’s why most people consider him “high functioning”*.

Though I absolutely won’t argue with that assessment.  Who would?  I’m grateful that he can speak, listen (kind of) and that he doesn’t seem to have cognitive struggles.  I am proud of him.  I am humbled by him.  I am grateful every single day for his progress.

I need to make a very clear distinction.  If you take nothing away from this post, please take this, high-functioning does not mean any of the following:

• Cured
• Communicative
• Misbehaved
• Less Autistic

I don’t believe there is a cure for Autism.  I believe that a person with Autism has a different brain chemistry.   I believe  that a person can adapt and perhaps appear neurologically typical through much work.  But I don’t believe that makes them any less Autistic.

Just because you have words doesn’t mean that you can communicate your wants, needs, and especially emotions.  It also doesn’t mean that you can process social cues and the emotions of others.

A person who is high-functioning is not coddled or simply suffering from a behavioral problem.  Are behavioral concerns present co-morbidly with Autism?  Absolutely!  As they are in any other population.  There are also behavioral problems that arise due to an individual not being able to self-regulate their emotional state, or communicate, or due to anxiety or the inability to understand social cues.   So, in effect, these are behaviors but they are related to brain chemistry and must be addressed in a way that is cognizant of the persons Autism.

Most frustratingly is when a person who is “high functioning” is considered less Autistic or “easier” (note, the two are not related).  I know typical children who are absolute nightmares for their families.  I know nonverbal children who are compliant and calm as can be.  I know children all across the board who have unique strengths and challenges. This is why it’s considered a spectrum disorder.  Our children might be lumped into one diagnosis but they are each individuals.

We all have our struggles though.  While my child is verbal and he seems to be cognitively high-functioning, he also cannot be left alone for even ten seconds.  He will run into traffic, or poop on the floor, or climb onto the refrigerator to reach the cereal, or pour soap all over the bathroom floor to go skating.  His tantrums are so seemingly “out-of-nowhere” that I cannot take him in public on my own for fear that he will harm himself, me, or others.  He has major sleeping issues.  He has extreme struggles with emotional regulation and anxiety.

My son’s greatest disability is that, at first glance, he appears to have no disability at all.

Here’s the thing.  Don’t tell me he’s cured.  Or that his needs are less.  Don’t tell me it’s easier.  Because it’s not.  My life is not easy.  None of our lives are easy.  We are all struggling silently in very different, but absolutely the same, ways.

Most importantly, I think we all need to step back and realize that it’s not a contest.  I don’t question your struggles and I don’t feel that I should be compelled to justify mine.  Being a parent is damned hard.  Being a parent to a child that is different is super-damned hard.

So let’s all try really hard to leave the labels behind and focus on the one thing we all have in common, that we will fight any battle (and win) for our children.

9.5.10 *Edited to add, my friend Kristine Lewis makes a good assertion that the term “high-functioning” is somewhat oxymoronic as anyone who meets the qualifiers for an Autism diagnosis in the DSM certainly has serious struggles that make functioning tedious at best.